July 2, 1997: Bridport to Abbotsbury
At Burton Freshwater
My back was not getting any better, I now realized on our next-to-last walking day, and one of the first things I decided to do, after applying more Deep Heat, was to get rid of one of the heavy rocks that Tosh had given me the previous day. It had ancient wormholes in it, but it was ugly and it seemed crazy to carry it any longer. There was one other guest at breakfast, an elderly lady (by which I mean someone a few years older than myself) who had a serious conversation with the chef about her evening meal. She was having a tooth pulled and wanted only soup – “but as I don’t like chicken and I don’t eat beef, what else could you make a soup from?” The chef said he would make a vegetable soup and this seemed to satisfy.
We left Roudham House, still under grey skies, at about 9:15, and walked back to West Bay. One of my first acts was to slip my worm-eaten rock into the border of a garden on the hotel’s access road. We bought sandwiches and snacks in a grocery in West Bay; Margie undertook a long detour back to the loos here and I photographed the harbor while Tosh and Harold fussed with their packs. It was 9:50
We had only three black arrows today, but the first of these, up East Cliff, was one of the steepest on the trip. We were accompanied by a golf course once we reached the top and we had one more climb before descending to a huge caravan park at Burton Freshwater. Some of the residents had dug in here for the duration, with landscaped lawns and lily ponds. One chap told us that we didn’t have to walk inland to find a bridge over a stream; we could head toward the sea and climb over some dunes to get around a huge pool that marked the end of the streambed. This we did. We then had to climb Burton Cliff.
In the distance we could see some hotels and other buildings – the Lees convinced themselves that one of these establishment would open for business (i.e., refreshments) but it was a private home. Nevertheless, after having to climb a private fence to reach an access road, we approached the Burton Cliff Hotel, where the proprietor said he would be happy to serve us. It was only 11:30. I had half a lager while putting on some sun blocker, the second and last time it was needed on this trip. It was quite warm, though not unpleasantly so, and we were pleased that the roller coaster provided by an endless succession of cliff tops was coming to an end. We each penetrated the hotel, crossed the dance floor, and used the loos before it was time to leave.
The Chesil Beach at Burton Cliff
Harold found a set of steps down to the beach and we now had a choice. The beach looked invitingly open and, if it could be used, this would perhaps be preferable to the undulating path over low cliffs taken by the official route. However, hard sand is required for progress on a beach and I couldn’t tell whether there was any. Tosh said she would scout it out and headed off to walk against the shoreline. She waved the rest of us forward but as we continued east I realized that there was no sand at all, just millions of rolling little pebbles that made each step a struggle. She had put us, long before it was necessary, on the famous Chesil Beach – a unique geological feature that accompanies the coast for miles. Harold was having trouble with a foot and about half way along this obdurate stretch he climbed back up to the dunes. The rest of us stuck it out to the end, at a spot where the dunes themselves ended, but here I was happy to discover (after all the dire warnings in the guidebooks) that a solid path existed behind the beach, somewhat away from the sea, which could only rarely be seen now.
Tosh fell into a frenzy of specimen plucking at this time (she wanted my Swiss Army knife to dig up some of these; I suggested she use her new claw hammer) and Harold and I decided to wait at a spot opposite the reed beds of Burton Mere; brown cows were munching contentedly in this jungle. We decided to have our lunch when the ladies at last drew abreast and this was pleasant enough.
Good paths existed for most of the route to West Bexington, though some were overgrown and in the fields immediately before this town we floundered around for some time, eventually fording a stream and splashing through a marsh, before reaching the dryer but slower surfaces provided by pebbles once again. There was an open kiosk in West Bexington and we spent some time here; the others usually had tea on such occasions; I stuck to diet sodas. There were loos here too and we each made a long detour to use them. The kiosk was full of flyblown beach dreck and the lady proprietor (whose deaf dad was the waitperson) was complaining to a passing rep about the way the weather had done in her summer trade. Tosh decided to buy a pair of earrings to go with her green Class of 1990 t-shirt. Harold sniffed at all the choices she held up, but she persisted. The price was only 99 pence – for two pair! “It doesn’t matter what color they are,” I said, “by the time you wear them your ears will have turned green.”
There had been some talk of escaping the pebbles by turning inland and climbing to the ridge that would eventually dominate Abbotsbury, thus utilizing the beginnings of the official inland alternative, but we now decided to stick it out on the coastal path – and we were rewarded with pitted roadbeds most of the way to the car park that marked the end of this stretch. The others seemed to get quite a distance ahead of me on this part of the route; it was also getting darker and wetter and by the time we reached the car park it was drizzling. We had to put on rain gear before trying to find our route up to Abbotsbury – but the guidebook instructions proved inadequate and Tosh got some advice from the car park attendant while the rain pelted down.
The Tithe Barn, Abbotsbury
We headed briefly back toward the beach, turned left and soon found a track that wound slowly uphill, beneath St. Catherine’s chapel, where we left the official route, following further bridleways and back alleys before entering this fascinating medieval village of Abbotsbury. We reached the Ilchester Arms at 4:10 and received our room in this ancient establishment – each bearing the name of a flower. Mine, Snowdrop, was beneath the beams on the top floor (and I banged my head in the bathroom). We met a few minutes later in the lounge (where Harold lost his key to Foxglove), had drinks and then did some sightseeing – including the church and the 15th century tithe barn. We also visited some local shops and a jewelry-maker – where I bought a pair of earrings for Dorothy.
I had a peppered sirloin steak at dinner time (on the whole not a great success), a meal during which a furious rain storm sent drops of water dripping down though the glass of the conservatory and onto our table in three places. After the teenagers had finished their mucky conversations outside the village hall and I had called Dorothy one last time I went to bed.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: